My Wifes Big Mouth Ch 04

"My wife signed the contract? Because I don't see it. Let me get some better light." With that, I stepped over, pulled out a Zippo, and lit the offending piece of paper on fire. Bridget and Rocco just stared as it burned like trash. "Nope... I was definitely right. That wasn't her signature. So, what were you saying about a release? Because now we're back to rape..."

...is what I should have said and done. I should have called their bluff. That's what a man would do. Me? I'm Big Pussy. I'm the king of coming up with a killer riposte after the fact. In the moment, I grab my little weenie and hide. I turtle. Not that it matters. Burning the contract wouldn't change a fucking thing. They wouldn't give me Cindy's original signature page -- not unless they had already taken a photo of it. There's no easy way out of this shit. Believe me, I would take it.

As I got behind the wheel of my car to pick up my son from his sleepover, the cinema of my mind flickered. I didn't see through the windshield; it became a screen on which I projected my pain as resentment I thought I had healed returned with a vengeance. I obsessed on the small details of my wife's infidelity. Somehow it was always the little things that seemed to get under my skin like a splinter. The way my wife maintained perfect posture while she sucked a cock -- keeping her shoulders rounded and her back straight, pelvis and spine in alignment, arms loose and still by her sides while her active neck does all the work. Or the way she seemed to subconsciously lean in when she took a slap -- like her body couldn't wait to feel the sting.

But nothing could distract me from the foul truth that had been revealed in that locker room video. Cindy's threeway with Bridget and Rocco in the hot tub was not the first time she stepped out on me. And I had no reason to think that her little "try out" with Matt and Todd was the first time either. She drained two dicks more like a seasoned veteran than a nervous rookie. That wasn't a one-off mistake or us experimenting together, as a loving and committed couple, with opening our relationship to cuckolding. No, that was Cindy doing whatever she wanted to gratify her sexual needs, while ignoring her husband's and violating his sacred trust all at the same time. I get off on my beautiful bride being a slut for other men. I want to see her taken by big dicks, but my wife is always on her knees behind my back and then acting like it never happened.

After watching the locker room security cam, I knew that whenever my wife's big mouth wasn't stuffed with some other guy's cock, or two, it was spewing out lies to me. When we had The Talk, I put everything on the line, telling her things about my fantasy life -- things about me -- that I had never told anyone or even allowed myself to admit. I was more vulnerable than I had ever been with anyone before in my life. I let that woman see my soul.

Now I knew that Cindy hadn't let me see hers. There was a part of her that was fake -- a part of her that she didn't want her husband to know about. It made me question how much she had cheated before. I found myself interrogating our history as a couple, reflecting back on some past situations that I thought were innocent at the time, but which now seemed like possible signs of infidelity. There were a few. More keep popping into my head.

The most fucked up thing of all was that Bridget had me wondering whether my son is really even mine. Do I need a DNA test? Would the results show that Sam is a Sarducci, not a Rosen? No, that's crazy. My paranoia is running wild but I can't let myself get carried away. Rocco couldn't possibly be Sam's father. Cindy and I just met him at the beginning of the hockey season. That might seem like it was eleven years ago, but it was actually about eight months. Besides, the kid looks just like me. He's all mine. With my DNA, I thought to myself ruefully, the test would show that he's 100% that bitch.

Despite my grim mood, I laughed a bit at my self-deprecation, but then I had another crazy thought about what my wife might be hiding -- something that had never occurred to me before. As if a bolt of lightning had dramatically forked through the darkness, for an instant I saw everything anew. I had a working theory; now I needed to test it.

Lightning may not strike twice, but in that flash of insight I had a second epiphany. The need to test my theory about Cindy made me think back to my sociology professor from college, of all people. The man was as witty as he was erudite and he had some delightfully irreverent things to say about testing scientific theories -- particularly in the social sciences, where the subjects of our theorizing are free to act in ways that may confound us. I can hear him now, lecturing in his thick Polish accent.

"Imagine how sorry would be the plight of the natural scientist," my professor would say with a playful gleam in his eye, "if the objects of his inquiry were in a habit of reacting to what he says about them: if the substances could read or hear what the chemist writes or says about them, and were likely to jump out of their containers and burn him if they did not like what they saw on the blackboard or in his notebook. And imagine the difficulty of testing the validity of chemical formulae if, by repeating them long enough or persuasively enough, the chemist could induce the substances to behave in accordance with them -- with the danger, however, that they might decide to spite him by doing exactly the opposite. His task would be even more hopeless if the chemicals could see through his tactics, organize themselves to guard their secrets and devise countermeasures to his maneuvers -- that is what the student of human affairs has to face."

That sums up the challenge that I had to face. If my theory was correct, then Cindy had been deceiving me from the very beginning. I had to assume she would continue to use all her feminine wiles to guard her secrets and devise countermeasures to keep me from uncovering the truth. To overcome that, I need to stop being so predictable and reclaim my agency. Take back some control. Bridget and Rocco -- maybe even Cindy too -- think they have me all figured out. And they probably do. Bridget and Rocco have been a step ahead of me this entire time. The way my bet with Bridget is playing out, it's pretty much inevitable that Rocco completely dominates my wife and makes her carry out all 40 of those humiliating challenge cards. The goddamn game is rigged. The only way to win is to break the rules. Flip a table over. I have to do something they aren't counting on; like those scheming, self-aware chemicals my professor rhapsodied about, I need to jump out of my container and burn these bitches.

Just then, serendipity took the form of a song. My satellite radio was playing rock music quietly in the background when I faintly detected opening chords I hadn't heard in years. I turned up the volume. When the singer started really going in, I turned it up some more and began nodding along. The music stimulated my primal instincts for aggression and in no time I was banging my head to the blistering beat.

"(Now you're under control) And now you do what they told ya

(Now you're under control) And now you do what they told ya

(Now you're under control) And now you do what they told ya

(Now you're under control) And now you do what they told ya

(Now you're under control) And now you do what they told ya

(Now you're under control) And now you do what they told ya

(Now you're under control) And now you do what they told ya..."

I was lost in a lurid frenzy, screaming along with the radio and thrashing wildly behind the wheel. It's a good thing Sam didn't see me dad rocking like this because he would be deceased. The music had me too hyped to care and the more wound up I got, the more radical and defiant I became. I chanted the lyrics like they were a war cry.

"Fuck you, I won't do what you tell me

Fuck you, I won't do what you tell me

Fuck you, I won't do what you tell me

Fuck you, I won't do what you tell me

Fuck you, I won't do what you tell me

Fuck you, I won't do what you tell me

Fuck you, I won't do what you tell me

Fuck you, I won't do what you tell me

Fuck you, I won't do what you tell me

Fuck you, I won't do what you tell me

Fuck you, I won't do what you tell me

Fuck you, I won't do what you tell me

Fuck you, I won't do what you tell me

Fuck you, I won't do what you tell me

Fuck you, I won't do what you tell me

FUCK YOU I WON'T DO WHAT YOU TELL ME

MOTHERFUCKER"

At the very instant that I hit that echoing "Ugh" at the end of the song, I suddenly spun the wheel, the tires on my Subaru station wagon chirping as I fishtailed into a U-turn. I was done playing by their rules. I was done playing to lose. I was going back to Bridget's house to let that cunt know she and Rocco can count me out of their sick little game. Fuck you, I won't do what you tell me. Let's see how Mr. "Redmen Redemption" likes it when he hears that I'm off the fucking reservation.

I was in a manic state. I felt powered up. My soaring confidence had me feeling ready to bust back in there and tell 'em all to go to hell. The motherfuckers don't know it, but they're already there.

I pulled into Bridget's driveway like I was David Carradine in Death Race 2000, parked wherever the fuck I wanted to and swaggered up to the house like I owned the joint. I had my balls back. I swear to God I was glowing a little. Just as I was about to pound my fist on the door, I heard Rocco's raised voice coming from inside.

Instinctively I crouched down to get out of sight. I was half-exposed behind the beautiful, recently-pruned hydrangeas in front of Bob's house. Using my colorful camouflage as best I could, I peered furtively into the bay window, where I found just the right angle to see through the small gap in the curtains. Rocco was on his feet, pacing the living room like a caged tiger, his huge organ dangling in front of him and his leash dragging behind. He wasn't tall and he wasn't especially muscular, but the old prick was sturdy, broad-chested and tauriform -- he had presence. Right then, he was yelling at Bridget, who remained seated on the couch. Even though I was outside, they were loud enough for me to hear most of what was said. Occasionally Bridget said something too muffled to apprehend, but mostly I could figure it out.

"I did my part," he hissed angrily. "I got Big Pussy's autograph for you. I got the body cam on him. I'm fucking done. I don't owe you shit any more, you got that?"

"You don't owe me anything any more?" Bridget asked mockingly. "I don't know what is going through that fucked up head of yours. I'll wipe out your debts when MasterBettor gets what it wants -- until then, we own you. You got that?"

"Oh? What the company wants, is that all you're after? Because I thought this might be a tad more personal for you, hon," Rocco responded, his North Jersey accent starting to show.

"Fine," Bridget said, speaking slowly to emphasize her annoyance. "When I get what I want."

"I wipe my ass with what you want," Rocco said as he unfastened the dog collar constricting his fat neck and let it fall to the floor. "You wanted Chesty's signature on the contract and I got that for you too."

"She didn't exactly know she was signing a contract," Bridget snapped, her voice shrill and thick with sarcasm. "Let's be real."

"Yeah, let's be real, sweetheart," Rocco shot back, his voice growing deeper and his eyes narrowing to slits. "I told you I could get the bitch's signature and I was right. 'If you don't want me to call you Chesty, just sign your name to this piece of paper and I'll call you whatever you want, Dr. Rosen,'" he recited in a mawkish voice, mimicking what he must have told my wife before she left his house. Then he slammed the table with a meaty fist. "I took care of my end! I don't owe you shit anymore!"

I gasped out loud at that revelation, but Bridget was unruffled. She stood up straight, brushed off her shoulders, stepped to Rocco until they were toe to toe and looked him dead in the eye, stone-faced. "You don't owe me shit? You're in a hole that is six figures deep, my friend. Don't make it six feet."

I was outside, but even I could feel the energy in the room shift with that comment. Rocco didn't reply right away. He just shook his head and mugged, letting the silence grow uncomfortable before he finally spoke. "Who is telling me not to make it six feet? Is that you saying that shit? Or is that your Uncle Anthony?"

"That's none of your --"

"Because with all due respect, you shouldn't make threats," Rocco continued, blithely speaking over Bridget, "if you can't follow through. I may not be straightened out, but I'm an earner. The old man ain't having me clipped over some two-bit beef with a piece of cooze. I don't care if you are his niece."

A deranged look flashed across Rocco's roughcast face as he snapped his hand in Bridget's direction, mimicking a crab's pincers. She stumbled a few steps back, then, without breaking eye contact with her, the hairy old Italian reached down to the floor, picked up the leash, still hooked to his discarded dog collar, and without warning began strapping Bob's naked ass with it. Bob howled in pain as Rocco thrashed him mercilessly with the makeshift whip. He was sending a message.

At first Bridget tried to act tough. "I whip Sissy harder on date nights," she said sarcastically. But before long she was screaming and begging him to stop as her husband bawled incoherently.

Rocco was impervious to their sobs. He was an engine driven by umbrage, relentlessly cracking the leather against Bob's tiger-striped backside. It was fully uncomfortable to watch a grown man reduce another man to a blubbering mess of tears. I'm sure it didn't help matters that my friend was taking this vicious hiding with his cock already locked in a golden chastity ring.

At last, Bridget broke. "Enough."

I could see the fear on her face when she said it.

Rocco stopped his arm mid-swing, holding it still for a beat, eyes locked onto Bridget, his chest sweaty and heaving, then he brought the leash down one last time across her husband's horribly welted ass, giving him a final lick that elicited the most inhuman howls yet.

As Bob lay beaten on the floor, Rocco dumped the leash and collar on his quivering body, then brushed past Bridget, putting his shoulder into hers on the way to pick up her pile of challenge cards. Rocco was still breathing heavily from the exertion as he popped the cards back and forth from one open palm to the other, then performed a bridge before he began flipping the cards over to read them. "Let's see all the fucked up shit you -- I'm sorry, 'Mistress Bridget' -- wanted me to do." The way his face puckered as he swished that name around in his mouth, like it was water brash, made me think that a harsh switching might still be in her future as well. She sat back down, subconsciously protecting her own ass in a silent sign of defeat.

"Did this one, did this one..." Rocco intoned, as

much to himself as to anyone else as he rifled through the stack of fancy MasterBettor challenge cards. Those that displeased him he flung at Bridget's feet. "Don't give a shit about this one...."

When he was done, he was clutching a handful of cards, with the rest dumped on the floor. He still had the gold card, two reds -- the third one was with me -- and just a few blacks. Rocco read them silently to himself, but I could hear him mutter under his breath when he flipped over the gold card. "Madonne!"

Bridget smiled wickedly, but said nothing.

"Here's the deal, hon," Rocco growled when he was done weeding out unwanted challenge cards. He was looming over Bridget, who looked small next to this hulking brute. "I ain't doing 40 of these fucking things. But you give me half your share of the company and I'll do these ones in my hand."

"Uncle Anthony would never allow it," Bridget scoffed with overweening assurance. "You know how invested the family is in this."

"Don't hide behind your uncle's skirts," Rocco seethed. "I didn't say nothing about Anthony's share or the family's share or any of that shit. I said give me half of your share. The share that belongs to you and... Sissy over there." His tone was washed in contempt. "You can think of it as kicking your husband's half up to me."

"You already got a point and a quarter on this job. That's enough. You're not getting half of our share, too," Bridget replied. "I let you wet your beak, not drown yourself."

"This ain't no negotiation, sweetheart," Rocco said gravely as he reached down to grab the leash again. "You don't want to see my counteroffer."

Bridget looked at her husband, still writhing in agony on the floor, and nodded her head, her chin down, eyes lowered. She looked even hotter now that Rocco had taken the edge off her pride.

Just then, my phone buzzed, distracting me from the action inside the house. I crouched lower in the flower bed and checked my text messages. I had a new text from Sam. "When is bro going to pick me up?"

I'm the boy's father, but somewhere along the lines I became "bro," "bruh" or "brah." I guess I shouldn't complain though. He calls his mother the same thing. She hates it almost as much as she hates being called "Chesty."

I sent Sam a text back telling him I was leaving soon. As I heard the whoosh of my message being sent, I put my phone on mute and stuffed it back in my pocket.

Before I could resume spying through the gap in the curtains, Rocco threw open the front door and emerged fully clothed and strutting towards his vintage red 'vette, a stack of challenge cards in his fat fist. He must have been confused when he saw my Subaru still parked in the driveway. Scanning around, he immediately caught me crouched down in the hydrangeas, no doubt looking ridiculous with dirt on my knees. He studied me up and down then gave me a jovial grin and said, "It looks like we got a nigger in the woodpile."

I winced. Of course this lowbred goon would say it that way.

"I was just... ah...," I stammered. I know Rocco is awful etiquette epitomized, a living breathing rebuke to good manners, but the depth of his crudity had me momentarily at a loss for words.

With a series of richly articulated hand gestures, Rocco showed me he understood without the need for any further discussion. "Say no more, you stuttering prick, ya!" He appeared relaxed and amused. His tone was jocular. "I'm outta here but I'll see ya tonight."

I gave him a quizzical look.

"The coaches called a special practice to help get ready for the playoffs Saturday. The parents are going to come too and cheer 'em on. I was just talking with Bob about it," Rocco added with a twisted laugh. "You should bring Chesty."

I smiled like an idiot. I didn't know what else to do. I could have crumbled to dust and died. This man had caught me spying on him -- again -- and he might as well have called my wife his fucking goomah in the process. "You should bring Chesty," I said to no one, deepening my voice to mimic Rocco's rich bass. Fucking prick.

Rocco started his car and let that supercharged engine clear its throat. The top was off and his big bald spot stared back at me while he cranked the radio even louder. I might be losing my mind, but as he tore out of Bob and Bridget's driveway, I had the unspeakable feeling that the song he was blasting held a special message just for me.

"Mother America

Is brandishing her weapons

She keeps me safe and warm

By threats and misconception

So if you break the chain

You'll have to shake me

And if you break my...."

That's the last lyric I could make out as his car disappeared down the road. I was thinking about doing the same, but when I heard Bridget and Bob bickering inside, I stayed rooted outside their front window.